


I Am Yours

by Vera_dAuriac



Series: The Debts We Make [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor Athos and Aramis can't catch a break. Aramis is under the weather, but thank goodness Athos is there to take care of him.</p><p> </p><p>He longed to get his tongue on every inch.<br/>“You’re staring,” Aramis said.<br/>“I am,” replied Athos</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snow_Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow_Glory/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Snowglory!
> 
> Chapter 1 is really Teen and Up, but Chapter 2 is likely to be Mature or maybe Explicit, so that's why I went Mature to start.
> 
> I've done my best to make this story stand on its own, even though it is part of a series; however, reading in order is rewarded, so jump in where you wish.
> 
> These characters aren't mine, blah, blah, blah.

By Vera d'Auriac

Athos had assumed it was his overwrought imagination that had made Aramis’s lips and cheek feel so warm on his forehead the night before when he kissed him. After all, Aramis had just finished describing the most lewd—and delicious—things he desired to do to Athos while Athos pleasured himself. It was one of the most erotic experiences of his life, and he had been basking in the afterglow of his orgasm when Aramis kissed him. Of course Aramis had felt hot. Athos just hadn’t realized that Aramis wasn’t merely hot, but feverish. They saw off the two masons on their way to Brussels, and Athos studied Aramis’s sweating, flushed form.

“You are too ill to travel,” Athos said bluntly.

“Since when were you a physician?” protested Aramis. “I am a bit under the weather, but I can make it to Paris as planned.” He stopped his packing and took a few steps to reach Athos. Placing a hand on Athos’s cheek, he said, “Please. I long to be in Paris. To be in your house, alone where no one else can stumble upon us. We will go slowly. I will put a damp rag under my hat to keep myself cool, and tonight we will sleep in your bed.”

Athos must have been mad—struck by the emotional equivalent of Aramis’s fever—because he said, “Yes.” Naturally, he could change his mind and stop them at one of the inns that would become more frequent as they neared Paris if Aramis worsened. But Athos understood how Aramis felt, for he felt much the same way—if any possibility existed for them to spend the night in the privacy of Athos’s home, he desperately wanted it.

And so they loaded the horses and set off at a slow, but steady pace. They stopped every two hours at first, and then every hour and a half to allow Aramis to rest and drink watered wine. Their progress felt laborious to Athos, but he didn’t dare rush Aramis more than he could bear with his fever and sweats. Athos may wish to be alone with Aramis, after all, but he wished it so not only for this night, but many nights to come. Aramis’s health was paramount. 

When they rested late in the afternoon at a spot that would typically be no more than an hour’s ride from home, but would be much longer at their current pace, Athos asked, “Are you certain you can continue?”

Aramis’s hand shook as he rose it to wave Athos off. “I will be fine. We are nearly there, yes?” He wobbled on his legs, and Athos rushed over from Roger’s side to steady him.

“You are not well enough to ride. There is an inn not far from here. We will get a room.”

“No,” Aramis pleaded, his eyes piercing Athos. “Please, take me home. I don’t want to be sick at some roadside inn, I want to be sick alone with you.”

Athos could not stop his hand from stroking Aramis’s cheek. Aramis nestled into the soft, blue leather covering Athos’s hand, and Athos felt as though it would be impossible not to kiss him. But Aramis was so warm! “You are so very ill. Are you sure you want to continue?”

Aramis insisted, so Athos sat him down on a fallen tree while he moved as much gear from Roger to the mare as he could. Once he had a rope strung from the mare’s bridle he could hold while on Roger, Athos hoisted Aramis into Roger’s saddle and mounted behind him. Arms wrapped tightly around Aramis, Athos gave Roger the little nudge he needed to continue the ride to Paris.

“Do you remember the last time we were like this?” Aramis asked in a hazy voice.

Naturally, Athos remembered. How could Aramis think he would ever forget that night five years ago when Athos rescued him from torture in an Andorran dungeon? Aramis had been bloody and in much worse condition than now. Athos’s heart still broke and hatred for the woman who had abused Aramis still welled in his chest when he thought of the night. “Yes. I have never been so frightened. First, worried for what had happened to you. And then when I found you barely sensible lying on a dungeon floor covered in blood.” Athos kissed the back of Aramis’s neck. “When I think what she may have done to you if I hadn’t found you, I never want to let you out of my sight again.”

Aramis whimpered. “Oh, Athos!” he exclaimed, and Athos could hear tears in his unfocused voice. 

The poor man was too feverish to understand what he was saying, and might regret it later, very much like _in vino veritas_ , only you didn’t have only yourself to blame. “Aramis, calm yourself and do not be troubled. That was a terrible night. Let us not speak of it.”

“But Athos, you cannot understand the guilt, the _shame_ , that has haunted me since that night.” Aramis continued to cry, and Athos pulled him as tightly as he could without disrupting his hold on the horses.

“Aramis, if there is anything I understand in this world, it is shame. I…I saw it in your eyes that night. I could not understand it then, and I do not understand it now. I have been plagued by shame for as long as I can remember, but you have nothing to feel ashamed about from that night. What that woman did to you—“ 

“I liked it,” Aramis whispered. “Athos, I liked it when she hurt me. She would have killed me if she’d had the chance. She tried to kill you. But when she whipped me, pulled my hair, bit me, I liked it. I was aroused. You saw my cock. She could not have clawed me so effectively if I hadn’t been liking it.”

And for a minute, Athos just let Aramis cry. He was not himself because of the fever—a state that could bring on melancholy in even a stoic man—and he clearly needed to unburden himself. Later, when he was well, Aramis may feel a twinge of embarrassment about this outburst, but, frankly, it would be easier for Athos to convince that man to feel no shame, than this ill one. “Aramis, that does not change how I feel about you,” Athos assured him with a squeeze.

Aramis let out a sudden, sharp moan. “How can you not hate me now? I’m a depraved reprobate who cares more for his own passion than your safety.”

“You are human. Beautifully so,” Athos said before planting another kiss on Aramis’s neck. “I love you nonetheless.”

“But, Athos, you do not understand. I enjoy pain. I… _need_ it. I am, as the priests at seminary so often told me, not normal.”

Athos knew painfully well what Aramis felt. And he could say with no certainty that he was incorrect. But he had one response at the ready. “If you are not normal, Aramis, than neither am I. So it is good that we found each other.” And Athos pulled Aramis so tight that the mare yanked against her rope and even Roger snorted in dissent.

***

The remainder of the ride to Paris consisted primarily of Athos assuring Aramis of his love. Poor Aramis was exhausted, fevered, and not entirely in command of his faculties. Athos wished he could take away his hurt, but that could only be attempted through logic, and Aramis would not be sensible until he recovered. The focus needed to be on reaching Athos’s house where he could begin taking proper care of Aramis.

They finally reached Athos’s, a tiny house a few blocks from the garrison that he had taken when he had been promoted to Captain so he could be closer. There were some street children who often lingered in the neighborhood knowing he sent frequent messages to the garrison and paid well for the service. Tonight, Guillaume lingered outside a tavern across the street from Athos’s door as they rode up. All it took was a nod from Athos for the boy to run up to his side.

“Hold this, please,” Athos said, handing the boy both the mare’s rope and Roger’s reins. The boy, probably around twelve, showed an extraordinary intelligence and reliability to the point that Athos had discussed his future with Porthos. But for now, Athos needed a simple message delivered. He slid off Roger's back and pulled Aramis down after him. “Please go to the garrison. Tell M. Porthos I’ve returned home with our friend, who is unwell. I would like him to come here as soon as he is able.”

“Would you like me to take the horses to the garrison stables, sir?”

Athos looked at the horses, Roger tired but well-tempered as always. The mare, however, seemed decidedly testy, especially for a horse that had been spared a rider for the last two hours. “It is no reflection on you, Guillaume, but I think not both at once. Take Roger now, and I will unload the other horse. You can take her when you return with M. Porthos.”

“Can you manage with your sick friend? Do you need help?”

“I am not so sick as that,” Aramis muttered.

“I will manage,” Athos answered, pulling some coins from his pocket and handing them to the boy. “Go. Take Roger and deliver the message.” The coins gratefully pocketed, Guillaume hurried off with Roger while Athos opened the door to let in Aramis while he unloaded the mare. 

Soon Athos had everything removed from the horse and he hurried inside after Aramis. He was not dangerously confused at the moment from his fever, but he was still melancholy and overwrought. Athos, now that they were home and he’d seen to the horses and delivered the messages he needed to, could focus on holding Aramis until this all passed and he smiled once again. Aramis had wandered through the little sitting room into the bedroom Athos used. There was another on the other side of the sitting room where, technically, Athos should house a guest. But Aramis had already sprawled across the bed, his feet dangling over the edge onto the coffer bench. He didn’t look as though he were asleep, but Athos thought he appeared restless and his breathing labored.

“Athos?” Aramis asked as he neared the bed. “I’m so tired and warm. Is this where I’m sleeping?”

“Of course, it is. Let me remove your boots. And I will get you something clean to sleep in. One of my bigger shirts, I think.”

“I don’t need to wear anything to bed,” Aramis grinned wickedly. Athos had reached the bed side and clasped Aramis’s hand. “Please tell me you don’t wear anything when you sleep at home.”

As a matter of fact, Athos typically did, even when he didn’t simply pass out in his clothes. But that was a discussion for another time. “I told Porthos you were here. You don’t want to be naked when he arrives.”

“I don’t care if I’m naked in front of Porthos.”

“Porthos probably told d’Artagnan.”

“I don’t care if I’m naked in front of d’Artagnan.”

“D’Artagnan may bring Constance.”

“D’Artagnan will care if I’m naked in front of Constance.” Aramis’s grin broadened. “Dress me as you will, dear Athos.”

Athos stripped Aramis naked, truly wishing he could leave him in this state. He was still a marvel, the monastic life not robbing him of his svelte frame and definition. Yes, perhaps he was ever so slightly thinner, but his muscles and general build were still the most enchanting of any man Athos had seen. He longed to get his tongue on every inch.

“You’re staring,” Aramis said.

“I am,” replied Athos, dragging his fingertips down Aramis’s chest to his abdomen. He still felt so warm, and Athos remembered he needed to care for this beautiful sick man. “Let me clean you off before I put a shirt on you.”

“Please don’t.” And suddenly Aramis sounded impossibly exhausted. Athos took his hand once more, and Aramis’s grip was weaker than before. “I’m so tired. I would just like to sleep now.”

“Of course.” Athos bent over and kissed his sweaty forehead. “You should sleep.”

Athos found a shirt for Aramis, an old billowy one that had always been too big on Athos and reached to the middle of Aramis’s thighs. Once attired, Athos tried to tuck Aramis into bed, but Aramis kept throwing the covers off, complaining he was too warm. They finally compromised, and Aramis allowed Athos to pull the light, cotton sheet up to Aramis’s waist.

And, naturally, as soon as he was settled and drifting off to sleep, Porthos arrived. He simply knocked as he pushed through Athos’s front door, demanding, “Where is he? Where is Aramis?”

“Porthos?” Aramis asked in a weak and sleepy voice from the bed.

Porthos nodded to Athos and slapped him on the shoulder as he walked past to the bed. “Aramis,” he said, getting a bit choked up when he sat on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he fumbled around, patting Aramis’s hand and then his arm until he just grabbed him by both shoulders and pulled him upright into a crushing hug. “Aramis. I….” But Porthos didn’t seem capable of completing the thought. Instead he patted Aramis on the back of the head with one of his large hands before leaning back so he could look Aramis in the eye.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Aramis said.

Porthos sniffed and rubbed his eyes hard with his cuff. “Sorry,” Porthos said, laying Aramis back down and fluffing his pillow. “Only you would come back after four years and be sick. Is Athos taking good care of you?”

“Of course I am,” Athos protested.

“Of course, he is,” echoed Aramis. “He loves me.”

Porthos smiled with his deep dimples. “We both love you. Always have. Even when you left us.”

“I love him, too,” Aramis said, his eyes leaving Porthos and finding Athos over his shoulder. Still looking at Athos, Aramis leaned forward and whispered in Porthos’s ear, “I love him very much, Porthos.”

“Aramis,” said Athos, trying to use a scolding tone, but finding it difficult when he gazed at Aramis’s fevered, love-struck face.

“Very. Much,” Aramis said emphatically.

“Oh. Oh!” said Porthos, leaning back and nodding. “I see. Don’t fret, Athos. I will say nothing.”

Athos sighed. “Yes. I am sure we can trust to your discretion.” Athos knew once he was himself again, Aramis wouldn’t go around Paris telling people of their highly illegal feelings, but he could not help being uncomfortable at this admission to even someone as thoroughly trustworthy as Porthos.

“He would have figured it out,” Aramis said.

Porthos nodded. “It’s true. I know you two better than anybody. And you know I don’t like it when you two keep secrets.”

Athos saw the reference to when Athos and Aramis did not tell Porthos about Aramis’s night with the Queen and the fact it led to the Dauphin. That, of course, made Porthos party to treason, which is why Athos had wished to keep it from Porthos. This, well, this only gave Porthos secondhand knowledge of a grave criminal offense. Athos sighed again, hoping he would work this terrible new habit out of his system.

“How are you Porthos?” Aramis asked so earnestly. “Tell me everything I don’t know.”

“Absolutely not,” Athos jumped in. “All Porthos is going to say is “Good night,’ and you are going to sleep. Porthos will be back tomorrow if you are feeling up to visitors. For now, he and I have business to discuss.”

Aramis yawned. “When did you get so mean?”

Porthos brushed the hair from Aramis’s forehead to clear off a spot for him to plant a kiss. “You, my friend, are warm. Very. Get well, and we’ll have a night out, my treat.”

Aramis’s eyes fluttered shut. “Promise you’ll be here tomorrow?”

Porthos looked up at Athos, and Athos could not repress a grin. “As his commanding officer, yes, I can promise you Porthos will be here tomorrow.”

With a contented hum, Aramis, rolled onto his side, and if he was not asleep he was quite close. Athos gestured to Porthos and the men left the room together and silently as possible. Out in the small sitting room, Athos led Porthos to the back corner and the sideboard with a decanter and glasses. Wine poured for both of them, Athos took a deep breath and thought he was ready to begin.

“I have dispatches from Treville, if you could take them back to the garrison. Have I missed anything in my absence?”

“The garrison is fine,” Porthos said with a great deal of animation for a man speaking softly. But the way he tucked his chin and eyed Athos with his eyebrows raised spoke loudly. “In love then?”

“Yes. I…I have had feeling s for a very long time, but, well…. Are you sure you’re not appalled by us both?”

“Appalled? Why in the hell would I be that?”

Athos took a long drink. So long, in fact, he need to refill. Once he had that poured, and took a sip, he said, “It’s unnatural. Certainly most of the world, the church, and the courts find it so.” 

“Since when did you think that sort of reasoning would hold weight with me? Beside, well, I’d hate to be a hypocrite.”

Athos raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Porthos grinned. “One night, God, must be ten years ago now, Aramis and I were so drunk. Have no idea where you were. Anyhow, not that it was unpleasant, but turns out to not be my particular thing. But if you and Aramis are in love.” Porthos stopped and shrugged. “My only problem with it is that it’s going to be hell for you two. I take it he accepted the mission since he’s here.”

“Yes. A bit reluctantly at first, but I think he will be very good at it.”

“Whether or not he’d be good at it has never been at question. But he’s going to be in Reims and traveling as much as he’s in Paris. And you’re a Musketeer captain in a time of war. Even when you both might happen to be in the same city, you won’t often be together. Even if you’re careful. It’s going to be hard, Athos.”

And there it was. The great problem Athos had been able to keep from plaguing him while he was worrying about how he would make love with Aramis and then how he would care for him. They would never be together in any meaningful day-to-day way. Certainly not until the war ended and Aramis was released from duty to the Archbishop. Which, Athos forced himself to admit, might likely never happen. He loved Aramis, and he had admitted it, and Aramis had admitted it back. And it all meant nothing.

“Athos?” cried Aramis from the other room.

“The dispatches are in my saddlebag,” Athos told Porthos, pointing to said bags sitting just inside the door. “Come back in the morning at seven to watch him so I can go to the garrison.”

Porthos nodded. “I’ll send word and see if Constance can come over to help take care of him.”

Athos returned the nod and quickly made his way to Aramis’s side. He seemed to have fallen asleep immediately after calling for Athos or had called without ever waking. Athos wrung out the rag sitting in the basin next to the bed. After draping it across Aramis’s forehead, Athos settled into a chair next to the bed, ready for his vigil.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Porthos's turn to take care of Aramis while he's sick.
> 
> And this chapter isn't any dirtier than the first--that has been saved for Chapter 3 
> 
> “If he is any worse when I return, I will hold you responsible,” Athos said, poking a finger into Porthos’s chest.  
> “I’d sooner chew glass than not take good care of Aramis,” Porthos said. “And I chewed glass before once. Unpleasant.”

Aramis woke up alone. He opened his eyes and he could not see well, the light dim and his head hurting, but he could tell that no one was there. Neither could he hear anyone. Where was he? This wasn’t his cell at the monastery. “Hello?” he croaked out, trying to roll from his side to his back to get a better look. 

Once on his back, he flipped his head to the other side. There was a long, dark blue dressing table with a rickety chair just to the left of the cracked door. He had no such furniture. “Hello?” he forced out a bit more loudly. 

Athos rushed through the door, his beautiful hair fluttering behind him. He was dressed in his best leathers, pauldron and weapons belt secure, looking every inch the Musketeer Captain. And then Aramis remembered he was back in Paris, staying at Athos’s house. Athos, whom he loved, and who loved him in return. 

“I’m so sorry,” Athos said, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Aramis’s hand. “I didn’t mean for you to be alone when you woke. I was just talking to Porthos in the other room, so we did not disturb your sleep.” 

Aramis wanted to stare at Athos’s lovely face all day now that he had his eyes open and focusing, but he peered over Athos’s shoulder. There, leaning in the door frame, was Porthos. He had taken his sword belt off and undone a few buttons. In contrast to Athos, Porthos appeared ready to settle in rather than run out the door. This arrangement made Aramis both happy and sad. “Are you going?” Aramis asked, turning his gaze back to Athos. 

“I must,” answered Athos. He reached up with his free hand and rested it against Aramis’s forehead. “Your fever seems about the same, and I do not want to leave you, but I must go to the garrison. But Porthos is here. And he says Constance is coming later.” 

Aramis frowned at Athos, but then saw Porthos walking toward him and smiled. “It will be nice to visit with Porthos. But hurry home.” 

Athos scowled. “This is not a visit. This is Porthos nursing you while I am gone because you are ill. I’m having some broth brought over from the inn around the corner. I want you to eat it and then sleep.” 

“In other words,” said Porthos, “be exactly the kind of patient he never is.” 

Aramis chuckled and Athos turned his scowl on Porthos, but all Porthos did was grin. 

“If he is any worse when I return, I will hold you responsible,” Athos said, poking a finger into Porthos’s chest. 

“I’d sooner chew glass than not take good care of Aramis,” Porthos said. “And I chewed glass before once. Unpleasant.” 

That made Athos smile, which caused Aramis to do the same. Athos turned his beautiful smile directly on Aramis, and Aramis felt warm and contented, and he knew it was not simply from his fever. And then Athos kissed his forehead, a long, lingering press of lips that made Aramis sigh. “Be good for Porthos. You’re still so warm and sick. I want you better.” 

“Yes, Athos,” Aramis answered, with a squeeze of Athos’s hand. 

Porthos patted Athos on the shoulder on his way out the door before taking the spot on the edge of the bed. “Really, how are you feeling? Can I get you some water?” 

“That would actually be lovely.” 

Porthos rubbed Aramis’s hand laying on the bed where Athos had left it before going to the water pitcher on the bedside table. “When the broth gets here, you really ought to eat some, but can I get you anything else?” 

“No, Porthos, I am fine. Truly, I want nothing more than your company.” 

Porthos helped him to sit up, bunching the pillows at his back to support him, before handing over the water. “I’ve wanted your company an awful lot of times these past four years,” Porthos said, sitting back down. 

Aramis frowned around the lip of the glass. When he thought he could trust himself to look less hurt than he felt, he rested the glass in his lap. “I am sorry, Porthos. I had to go.” 

“I understand that. I always did. Could just never like it.” 

It was now Aramis’s turn to reach out and squeeze Porthos’s hand in comfort. Leaving Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan had been harder for him than anything else he’d ever done in his life. Even though he truly had felt no other option lay open to him. “Let’s not spoil now being sad about what cannot be changed,” Aramis said, quoting one of the few priests from his seminary days he still recalled fondly. “Tell me about Constance and d’Artagnan’s children.” 

Porthos smiled his wide, dimpled grin now, and seemed to forget everything that had troubled him only a moment before. He held much the same opinion of the children that Anne had expressed when he had talked to her. Aramis’s throat tightened when he remembered seeing her, seeing his son. Yes, he had missed a great deal being away, including d’Artagnan and his children, but he had needed to leave for the sake of his own child. Needed to fulfill his promise to God.

A knock came on the door and Porthos rose to answer it. The timing could not have suited Aramis better. He was losing track of Porthos’s conversation as he recalled his son, sunlight shining in his hair, bouncing around his mother. “God, grant me strength,” Aramis prayed to himself. 

Porthos was back only a moment later with the broth, which he set down on the bedside table. “Where does a man like Athos keep his spoons do you suppose?” Porthos asked. Aramis could only shrug and smile. “He probably drinks most of his meals and doesn’t need a spoon.” 

“Has he….” Aramis played with the sheet for awhile before he could go on or look at Porthos. “Has he had a difficult time?” 

Porthos hesitated, frowning down at Aramis, before he finally pulled over the chair from the dressing table and sat, a serious expression settling over his face. “Yes and no. When you first left, it was a bad time for him. You were gone and then Milady left.” Porthos paused to shake his head. “Now, there’s a relationship I’ll never understand, but her leaving hurt him something awful.” 

Aramis swallowed, suddenly feeling jealous that Athos may have been more affected by Milady’s departure than his own. It was fully aware that it was a stupid, petty thought, yet could not stand the idea of Porthos continuing to talk about her. “If you just give me the bowl, I can probably sip the broth directly from it.” 

“I had been looking for a spoon, hadn’t I?” Porthos asked, jumping to his feet. “Let me go check the other room first.” 

Aramis could only nod weakly, frankly wanting to go back to sleep more than he wanted to eat. But Porthos wanted to take care of him, and Aramis adored being with his old friend again. However discussing Athos and his…wife, and how unhappy Athos had been, made Aramis want to cry. It was this damned fever! It made him miserable, physically and emotionally, and he wanted to enjoy being with his old friend and talking about the people they loved. 

“Success!” Porthos cried from the other room, his long strides bringing him back to Aramis’s side in seconds. “Let’s take this towel,” said Porthos, picking up a towel from next to the basin on the table, “and tuck it in your shirt here. Yes, and now I can feed you without making you a mess.” 

“If you just hand me the bowl, I can feed myself.” 

Porthos raised his crooked eyebrow as far as his scar would allow him. “If you could see yourself, you would understand that’s not going to happen. I’ve seen rabbits look hardier than you.” 

Aramis admitted to himself that he was exhausted. The fact he did not continue to argue the point with Porthos was as good as admitting it to him as well. Porthos uncovered the bowl and balanced it in one hand while taking up the spoon in the other. Aramis sank back into his pillows and let Porthos feed him. 

The first spoonful dribbled primarily down Aramis's chin, being too hot to comfortably swallow, and Porthos had to set everything down to dab away what was dripping from Aramis's face. The second and third spoonfuls Porthos blew on to make cooler, and they ended with more broth in Aramis's mouth than on his body, which he thought a real victory. And then after a few more spoonfuls, Aramis taking over blowing duties, they found a comfortable system, and Porthos picked back up their conversation. “You asked if Athos had been bad these last four years. And I said, ‘yes and no.’ Well, you see, I think the war and Treville saved him.” 

Aramis was grateful to have a mouthful of broth that prevented him from speaking at the moment. 

“I think without the responsibility of being captain at a time of war, Athos would have crawled into a bottle for good, and there would’ve been no fishing him out.” Porthos paused in his feeding, but Aramis still could not think of anything to say, so he sat quietly until Porthos filled the silence. “I didn’t realize then just how much he missed you, and her leaving hurt, too. If he hadn’t had any responsibilities,” Porthos shrugged. “You could see the hurt if you knew him. D’Artagnan and I did what we could.” 

Porthos fed Aramis some more broth in silence, Aramis nearly choking on each mouthful as he tried to swallow the liquid and his pain. “But he made it,” Aramis said, unable to bear the silence any longer. “He led you and the men well and he’s done fine.” 

Porthos shook his head. “He’s been a great captain because he was born that way. But dammit, I hate saying this while you’re sick….” 

Aramis let Porthos trail off, and he wanted the matter to drop there, but he could not. Could not allow Porthos to keep what he longed to say unspoken. “Say what is on your mind, my friend.” 

Dropping the spoon into the bowl, Porthos placed a hand on Aramis’s forehead. “You’ve got a hell of a fever. Maybe you should sleep.” He put the bowl down on the table, but as soon as he had a free hand, Aramis grabbed a wrist. 

“I’m not so sick that I don’t want to know what you’re thinking,” Aramis pleaded. “I’m sorry for the hurt I’ve caused. It's my greatest regret. But I tell you, Porthos, I couldn’t see any other way. I need you to understand that. Don’t hold it against me. And don’t keep me from your thoughts now.” 

Porthos took his free hand and placed it atop Aramis’s that was clamping his other wrist. “Aramis, this can wait.” 

“No, it can’t. We should always be free and honest with each other.” 

“Oh, Aramis,” Porthos frowned. “It’s just that we all missed you. Going to war without you, I didn’t feel right not having you there.” 

“But you had Athos leading you. And d’Artagnan at your side.” 

Porthos squeezed the hand he held. “But I have two sides, and so does Athos. When he got wounded at Trier—”

“What? Athos was wounded? Why did none of you tell me?” 

“Athos made us promise we wouldn’t. I…I take it you haven’t seen him without his shirt on. I know that’s kind of a personal question.” 

Coming from Porthos, Aramis didn’t care in the least about what topics were personal and which were not, but had he seen Athos with no shirt since they met at the monastery? He realized now that he had not. “Tell me about the injury.” 

“Took a sword to his side. Few inches deep, and long. Apparently didn’t hit the important stuff, but…Aramis, when I realized you weren’t there to stitch him up, I was afraid. The surgeon we had ended up being alright, but we all wanted you there.” 

“I cannot believe none of you wrote me,” Aramis said, caught between anger and despair. “Athos was hurt that badly, and not a one of you could put it in a letter?” 

“Athos said not to. He was afraid….” And here Porthos stopped again. Not that Aramis needed him to continue. 

“He was afraid I would leave Douai and come running to his side to care for him.” 

“Yes.” 

Aramis bowed his head, his heart aching anew at the knowledge that his friends, particularly Athos, had suffered because of him. He could have helped Athos recover from his wound. And what had Porthos said? Aramis had not been by his side? Perhaps Aramis could have saved Athos from getting wounded in the first place. And even dismissing all of those second guesses, Aramis had not even been found reliable enough to know the facts. He wanted to weep. 

“I always want to be there for all of you from now on,” Aramis said. 

“Just be there for Athos,” Porthos said. He held Aramis’s hand in one of his and used the other hand to force Aramis’s chin up so they were looking eye-to-eye. “He’s been through so much. He can’t stand to be hurt again.” 

Aramis choked out a soft sob, but managed to stop his tears from falling. “I don’t want to hurt him, Porthos. I love him with all my heart.” 

“And how are you going to do that? Practically? He’s a Musketeer and you’re a spy. You’re both men, and while I don’t give a damn about that, a lot of folks do. I just see so much heartbreak for you two, and it worries me.” 

Aramis gripped Porthos harder and closed his eyes in a bid to stop his tears. “I want to go to sleep now.” 

Porthos pulled Aramis by the shoulders into an embrace. “You can’t ignore this forever.” 

“I know. But I need to sleep.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day at the garrison, Athos finally gets to return home and take care of Aramis. And as warned at the beginning of this Part, this is a Mature chapter.
> 
> “I will argue no more.” Aramis smiled beatifically. “I am yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in addition to Merry Christmas, let me add happy birthday wishes to SnowGlory. Love ya, hon! *smooch*

Athos thought he might finally be done for the day as the sun slipped from the sky and Porthos strolled back into the garrison. After sitting with Aramis in the morning until Constance arrived to take over his care, Porthos had been at the palace supervising the guard rotation and making certain the palace was secure when the King, Queen, and Dauphin returned. Athos had spent the entire day going over rosters of men and supplies, head aching as he tried to spread his few men from one end of France to the other and beyond. But he had every man assigned for the next two weeks and all of the supplies ordered that he could, including the special article now in his pocket that he’d had one of the boys pick up for him while out in the city that day. Yes, it was time to call it a night and take his surprise home to Aramis. But that assumed Porthos, who now leaned against his doorframe, stopped scowling at him as if he had done something terrible, like stealing a child’s candy, and let him leave.

“Have you heard from Constance?” Athos asked as he locked away his ledgers. “I haven’t heard about Aramis since d’Artagnan had lunch with them.”

“No, but d’Artagnan told me on the way up here you’d better send his wife straight home.”

Athos grinned a bit, d’Artagnan’s devotion to his wife still as charming to him after four years of marriage as it had been at the beginning. “I will. You are here tonight, yes?”

Porthos frowned, this wartime regulation not one for which he cared, but that he heeded without complaint. Well, without serious complaint. “Yeah. Are you sure rotate through the senior men regularly? I swear I’m stuck in this garrison waiting for dispatches every other damned night.”

Of course, Athos rotated in an obsessively fair manner, but because there were only so many senior Musketeers he entirely trusted on duty overnight in case of emergency, there were not a large number of men in the rotation. He knew Porthos missed his nights out in Paris, but he was a popular figure at the garrison, and he always found some poor soul willing to lose money to him at cards. “If that is all, I’m heading home. The garrison is yours.”

“Actually, one other thing,” Porthos said, his shoulders tensing and his eyes penetrating. “It’s about Aramis.”

“Is there something wrong with him?” Athos asked with what composure he could muster. “You should have told me as soon as you arrived this morning if something is wrong.”

“It’s not that kind of wrong. It only that Aramis has been through a lot. I think the last four years were harder on him than we realized.”

“How so?”

“He left with a lot of guilt, but I don’t think he ever got over it. I think it’s just worse.”

Athos knew Porthos was right, particularly after Aramis’s confession to him on the ride to Paris about his experience in Andorra. Once he was well, Athos vowed he would help Aramis past this somehow. Except, “I’m part of the guilt.”

“Maybe,” Porthos shrugged. “All I know is he can’t stand much more hurt. I don’t think he could take disappointment well now.”

“And you believe I will disappoint him.”

“I’m just saying, be careful.”

Athos took a few strides toward Porthos and gave his upper arm a squeeze. Porthos smacked him on the back and pulled him into a brief hug. “I will. I need to get home to him now.”

***

Porthos’s admonition echoed in Athos’s head, and he tried to find a way to attack the problem, since the only other solution was running away from it and he could never run from Aramis now. He needed for Aramis to know that his past problems were gone and mattered not at all to Athos. Whatever transgressions and hurts had been committed had no place in the present and future. And Aramis must be assured that Athos would be with him forever, and that he could not lose him. How Athos proposed to accomplish this when Aramis would be leaving his home for the Archbishop as soon as he was well, and Athos had responsibilities to the regiment, he did not know. But their feelings would surely maintain the connection, no matter the time and distances they spent apart.

When Athos walked through his front door, he did not care for the sight that greeted him. Constance stood at his little stove, heating water in the kettle, and frowning. She had always been an essentially cheerful woman, and even mundane tasks such as these typically did not dampen her spirits. Athos removed his sword belt and hung it by the door, and asked, “How is he?”

“Sleeping at the moment. Overall, he’s much the same,” she answered with the frown she kept trying to force into a smile. “It's just that his fever should have broken by now.”

“It’s only been a day and a half,” Athos said, perhaps slightly understating the length of Aramis’s symptoms. “It is not that uncommon for him to still be feverish.”

“You’re right, of course, but really, a fever ought to break before the end of the second day.”

Athos had never heard this bit of folk wisdom before, but when he thought back to being ill and caring for others, she was right—fevers did not usually last more than two days. “What do you suggest?”

“Well, I’m making some tea with herbs that ought to be good for him. But if the fever doesn’t get worse, I guess just patience.”

“Sit and wait. Yes. My preferred method of dealing with problems.”

Constance smiled and poured some of her concoction in a cup Athos did not remember owning. He hoped she had not been spending her money on buying him crockery. “We’ll see if he likes this.”

“Should we let him sleep?”

“Yes. But I’ll pour this now. It will probably be better once it’s had a chance to cool, anyway, so we can take it in now and let it sit.”

Athos gently placed a hand on her arm to stop her. Plucking the cup from her hand, he said, “I have been told that your husband desires you at home. Please go see to him and your children. I can care for one ill man.”

She grinned, but looked slightly skeptical. “Are you sure you’re up to the duty, Captain?”

“Absolutely. If he gets worse, I’ll send for the doctor at the garrison. We will be fine.”

“Just try to get some sleep yourself,” she said, throwing her shawl around her shoulders and gathering up her overflowing burlap bag. “Night, Athos. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Constance. Thank you again.”

“Keeping an eye on Aramis is nothing I need thanking for. It was good to see him again. It will be even better to see him well.”

Athos smiled at her retreating back until the door closed behind her. Even though the click was not terribly loud, it was enough, apparently, to wake Aramis, who called Athos’s name. Doing his utmost not to slosh the tea, he hurried to the bedroom. 

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked, sitting the tea on the bedside table.

“Awful, to be honest.” Aramis moaned and thrashed meekly.

When Athos realized what he was trying to do was push the covers off, Athos pulled them down for him. Then he placed a hand on Aramis’s forehead and found him hotter than at any point in his illness. “Aramis, you’re burning up.”

“I’m so hot.”

“Can you sit up? Constance made you some tea. She thinks it might help you.”

“I can’t drink anything hot. Athos, I feel miserable.”

Athos pushed some sweat-soaked hair from Aramis’s forehead, then moved his hand down to Aramis’s exposed upper chest where the shirt had never been tied. Even here, Aramis’s skin felt damp. “What can I do to make you feel better? Would you like me to wash you with a cool rag?”

Aramis suddenly seemed pleased. “A bath. Yes.”

“Are you sure a bath would be good for you? Soaking in water with a fever is something I thought most doctors recommended against.”

“I don’t care. You don’t even have to heat the water. Just throw me in the tub and dump water over me.”

“If you’re certain.”

Aramis’s response was a weak nod. So, even though Athos had never heard a cold bath for a fever patient encouraged, he could not deny Aramis’s desire. Besides, he always enjoyed a cool bath when he was sweaty after training, for instance. He would just be certain to wrap Aramis up tightly when he took him out.

Without losing any more time, Athos hauled his tub into the bedroom, lining it with an old sheet to keep the cold from Aramis’s skin. Then the laborious task of hauling water from the pump began. The sheet, thankfully, spilled over the sides and onto the floor, sopping up the water he dribbled as he grew more tired hauling bucket after bucket. He finally stopped filling when he reached the point at which Aramis would barely fit in without making a complete mess of the floor, the sheet not endlessly absorbent.

“Let me help you up,” Athos offered, returning to the bed. He pulled Aramis to a sitting position then gently swung his bare legs over the side. The exertion left Aramis winded. “Here. Have a little of Constance’s tea. She said it would be good cold.”

With Athos’s help, Aramis maneuvered the cup to his lips and slurped. “Enough,” Aramis said after only a few sips. “Get me in the bath.”

Athos stripped off Aramis’s shirt, leaving him entirely naked. In the light of the lamp Constance had left burning by the bed, Athos took a moment to study Aramis’s glistening skin. He was so beautiful and shimmering, Athos could not stop the stirring in his pants. But he reminded himself the sweat covering Aramis came from his fever. Athos swallowed deliberately and began helping Aramis from the bed to the tub.

“Is your floor entirely steady, Athos?”

Athos blinked several times. “I believe so. Why?”

“Oh, it’s just I’ve ridden recalcitrant horses that bucked less.”

“We’re almost there.” But when they reached the tub, Athos found himself not entirely sure of the best way to get him in and soaking. “Can you step in?”

Aramis made to lift his left leg, the closer of the two to the tub, but his foot barely lost contact with the floor. “I can hold onto your shoulders while you lift my leg?”

Poor Aramis, so weak as well as fevered. But Athos only waited long enough for Aramis to take as firm a grip as he could manage on his shoulders before lifting Aramis’s leg by the back of his thigh near the knee, while balancing him with his other hand at the small of Aramis’s back. They got the leg up and over the side and in the water. A similar maneuver got the other leg in, and then it was only a matter of carefully helping Aramis to sit.

“Ah!” Aramis sighed in relief as he sank into the tub. “It feels heavenly.”

“Let me grab a cloth. We might as well clean you while you are in there.”

“You may do with me as you wish,” Aramis said, head lolling against the edge, eyes closed.

“Do not tempt me,” whispered Athos, although the way in which Aramis chuckled told him he had not said it softly enough.

Athos plucked a cloth from a drawer at the dressing table and was heading to his wardrobe on the other side of the room to fetch a clean shirt, when Aramis said, “Oh, Athos, why didn’t you say anything seven years ago?” This unexpected statement stopped Athos midstride as he was passing the tub. 

“What?”

“Seven years ago. When I walked you back to your rooms. When I saw you inside, and I got down on my knees for you. Afterwards, you never said anything.”

Athos debated not saying anything still and instead continuing on to the wardrobe. Or he could say nothing, but kneel next to the tub and pull this beautiful man into an embrace. But he could decide on no course of movement, so he remained frozen, his back to Aramis, although he knew he could not remain silent. “I did not think you would wish it spoken of. You left so abruptly, and you never mentioned it, either. We had both been drinking, and I simply assumed it was something that had happened once and was best left that way. I thought you would want it that way as well.”

“Why? Why would you think that? I did what I could to show you how I felt, and then nothing from you in return for seven years. I longed for you.”

Athos turned and stooped at the side of the tub. “That’s not true. At least not entirely. I thought you understood in Andorra how I felt. When I sent you off on your mission.” Athos paused. He lifted his hand to Aramis’s cheek and stroked his thumb along his beard. The gesture was performed as exactly as he could replicate what he had done five years ago. “I will admit that my best demonstrations of love are not as overt as yours, and my words at the time were ridiculous, and yet, there was a moment, after I brought you back to the safehouse, when I thought you understood that I wanted…you.” 

Aramis rested his head heavily against Athos’s hand, his eyes still closed. “I did. I understood, and I wanted you as well. But, Athos.” He tried to stifle a sob, but emitted a choked cry that would break a stronger man’s heart than Athos’s.

“I’m sorry, Aramis. I should not have mentioned it. Please, do not be troubled. Just relax and get better. Here. Look. I bought rose scented soap just for you.” Athos brought the package out of his pocket and unwrapped it. This required both hands, and Aramis whimpered in protest at the removal of Athos’s hand from his face. “None of that matters. We are together now.”

Of course, Athos let go of the past more reluctantly than anyone, and Porthos’s warnings about the impossibility of their future echoed in his mind. But he did his utmost to ignore that, to appreciate that now, at this very moment, he and Aramis were together. That was an absolute truth, and the only one Aramis needed to hear in his condition.

Athos rubbed the soap onto the cloth once he’d wetted both. First he wiped Aramis’s throat with delicate, long strokes. He rolled his head back to make Athos’s job easier, but after a few more passes, each of which went a little farther down Aramis’s chest and neared the waterline, Aramis opened his eyes and gave Athos such a hurt look. Athos wanted to press Aramis tightly against himself and never release him.

“It was the shame,” Aramis said. “That I told you about on the ride. I didn’t want to drag you into my depraved, sinful life. I thought you deserved better. I still think you do.”

Athos pulled Aramis up from where he rested on the back of the tub for the dual purpose of kissing him and washing his back. “There is no one better than you,” Athos whispered against Aramis’s lips.

“But, Athos—“ 

“But nothing. If anyone here has a past that disqualifies him from being good enough, it is me.” He gently leaned Aramis back against the tub and rubbed more soap into the cloth. “Let us not worry about this tonight. Tell me—do you like the soap? I asked one of the garrison boys out buying supplies to stop by Madame Georgette’s to get it especially for you.”

Aramis visibly inhaled, taking in the scent. “It is lovely, Athos. You are too good to me.”

“Not a bit. You need a little pampering, and I feel privileged to be the one providing it.”

“I will argue no more.” Aramis smiled beatifically. “I am yours.”

Athos grinned and moved the cloth under the water and across Aramis’s abdomen. All the while, he stared at his hand through the distortion of the water, watching Aramis’s muscles tighten slightly under his strokes. When he looked again at Aramis’s face, his eyes were open and fixed on Athos.

“And you are mine,” Aramis said.

Athos leaned forward and pressed his lips against Aramis’s, but Aramis would have none of Athos’s gentle pecks. Instead, he opened his lips, drawing Athos’s tongue into his mouth until his own tongue forced its way into Athos’s mouth. “Aramis,” Athos panted, edging only far enough away from Aramis’s lips so as to speak.

“I am yours,” Aramis repeated. “And you are mine.”

“I am yours,” Athos echoed. “And you are mine.”

“I am yours.” Aramis pushed his lips hard against Athos before either of them could continue this catechism.

The kiss lingered and Athos attempted to resume his cleaning of Aramis, but at some point he lost what precisely he was to be cleaning and focused instead on Aramis’s soft lips, his hesitant but experienced tongue, and the delight of knowing he could touch the lovely man in the tub. Aramis may not have said “And you are mine,” before this kiss began, but Athos felt that way, nonetheless.

But even the most glorious kisses must end, and Athos eventually recalled to himself that Aramis was his patient, not his lover, at this moment. “Allow me to finish washing you. Do not you think it would be nice if your toes smelled like rose?” 

Aramis grinned and slid deeper into the tub so he could prop his feet up on the far edge. “That rhymed, which I adore. So, yes, please. I want my toes to smell like rose.”

Athos raised Aramis’s left foot. He passed the cloth along the sole before carefully pressing it between all of the toes. Aramis hummed contentedly, so Athos repositioned himself to reach the right foot and provide it the same treatment. Now Aramis moaned, but less in the agony of his illness or even tranquility. No, that was the sound of pleasure, and Athos could not resist exaggerating his washing of the final toe. He scooped up water and rinsed off the soap, but before he moved on, he pressed his lips to the top of each foot.

The cloth required more soap, so Athos vigorously rubbed it in again. Once he had visible suds, he set to work on Aramis’s calves. “Sadly, 'rose' does not rhyme with 'legs,'” Aramis said.

“Do you want me to stop?” Athos asked. 

“This is the happiest I have been in years. Please, do not stop until absolutely all of me smells of rose, rhyming be damned.”

Athos smiled, wanting to fulfill this rather lurid request, even though it would be unwise, given that Aramis was too ill. Granted, Athos could see through the water that a part of Aramis’s body felt differently on this account, and heaven knew Athos’s body had been ready for quite some time. But for now, he concentrated on wiping down Aramis’s calves and then around his knees. Once he had carefully washed Aramis’s thighs, Athos cleaned his stomach and chest again. After resoaping, he helped Aramis sit forward so he could wash all of his back properly. After having been in the water, traveling all the way down to the base of Aramis’s spine, the cloth required yet more soap. As Athos did so, Aramis leaned toward him and sucked at a spot just under Athos’s ear.

Forcing himself away from Aramis’s lips, Athos set the soap down on the fringe of sheet on the floor. He washed the top of Aramis’s back again and then his neck before moving around to the front once more and wiping his throat. “Oh, God, Athos. Kiss me.”

Athos obliged, dropping the cloth and holding Aramis’s head steady between both of his hands. The kiss had more force than Athos had felt from Aramis in days, and this caused him to realize something—under his fingertips pressed against Aramis’s temple, Athos felt cool skin. He pressed even more into the kiss before pulling back. “Aramis,” Athos said, “your fever has broken.”

Aramis smiled, and Athos, not believing his good fortune, leaned forward so as to press his lips to Aramis’s temple. He unquestionably felt cooler. The worst had passed!

“I think you’re right,” said Aramis with a broad grin. “I will be back to normal in no time.” He reached a hand forward and gripped it around the back of Athos’s neck. “And then you shall be mine.”

“I am yours,” Athos said with his own grin. “Are you ready to get out of the bath?”

Aramis nodded, and Athos realized that he was the one not actually ready for this. He had been stopped on his way to the wardrobe earlier, so now he had to rush over and find a clean shirt and something with which to towel off Aramis. But he managed to get Aramis out of the bath and clothed in good time. Yet, they made no move toward the bed, instead standing in the middle of the room, arms encircling one another, mouths delicately exploring lips and tongues.

Someone pounded on the door. They broke apart, and Aramis leaned his forehead against Athos’s. “We are cursed.”

Athos groaned, but Aramis chuckled. “Back to bed,” Athos commanded. “You are still recovering.”

Aramis brushed his lips against Athos’s cheek before heading toward to bed and Athos leaving to answer the door. It was Porthos, not looking especially happy and quite anxious. Athos forced himself up straighter, knowing he had to deal with the news that would bring his lovely night to an end. “When do we ride?” he asked Porthos as he invited the man in.

“An hour,” he answered. “Will Aramis be okay? Maybe Constance can bring the kids here?”

“No, he will be fine. His fever broke.”

“You’re leaving,” Aramis said, padding into the sitting room on his rose scented bare feet.

“You should be in bed,” Athos said.

“Feeling better?” Porthos asked Aramis.

“I had been.” Aramis frowned at Athos before directly addressing Porthos. “Take care of each other.”

Porthos was crushing Aramis in a hug seconds later. “Always. And you take care of yourself.”

Aramis and Athos exchanged looks over Porthos’s shoulder. “I will.”

With a hearty pat to Aramis’s back, Porthos broke off the hug. He turned to Athos. “Yes, so, see you at the garrison?”

Athos nodded, and Porthos awkwardly left the house, giving Athos a moment to say goodbye to Aramis. But could he say it? Could he go back to war now that he had Aramis?

Aramis must have sensed Athos’s hesitation, and he moved to Athos. Aramis’s fingers brushed Athos’s cheek, and then their lips brushed each other, and finally their bodies brushed together. “Go. Be safe,” Aramis said. “We will be together. That cannot change now. I am yours, Athos.” Aramis kissed Athos again, a beautifully light movement of lips meeting. “I am yours.”


End file.
